


A Day of Death and Mourning

by Titlark



Category: Versailles (TV 2015)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-16
Updated: 2016-11-16
Packaged: 2018-08-31 09:40:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8573413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Titlark/pseuds/Titlark
Summary: History always repeats itself and no one is more aware of that than Philippe, when visiting his brother in Louis´ summer residence, Chateau de Marly. It´s 1701, the King occupies his throne for more than fifty years filled with many things, including Philippe´s desperate struggle for true position at court. Now his son, Philippe II., seems to be in the same situation as his father was so many years ago and Philippe is determined not to let his son lose that fight. It´s possible, that this day may end all the sibling rivalry lasting for decades... just not the way any of brothers expected...





	

8th of June 1701, Château of Marly  
The Château of Marly was a relatively modest royal residence and Louis XIV often escaped there from the formal rigors at Versailles. Smaller rooms meant less company and a simplified protocol. Courtiers fought among themselves for invitations to Marly, which always meant great honour and proof of person’s importance to the king himself. The Sun King, who ruled France for fifty-eight years with absolute and unquestionable power.  
The sun was slowly reaching the west and Louis looked out of the window towards his servants, who were running out and back again with chairs, tablecloths and thousands of other necessities for a dinner in the gardens.   
Louis wasn’t sure he was looking forward to this evening. It surely promised many pleasures as well as many inconveniences.  
He suddenly felt old, which was rare for him, although his deep wrinkles seemed to carve on his face a map of his life. But an impressive dark curly wig and flawlessly tailored clothing, along with his straight posture, bright eyes and inner energy, composed the impression of a somehow ageless, powerful man – a King.  
He sighed and looked up at the sky again, his heart suddenly tightened in a vague premonition.   
Which was chased away entirely when the King’s valet entered the room, interrupted Louis’ loneliness and bowed.  
“Your Majesty, the Duke of Orleans is here.”  
Louis nodded. “Send him in, Bontemps.”  
Bontemps quickly nodded and left. He was a dutiful thirty-year-old man, who held the position of senior valet for just few months and did quite well, but still… his father was missed dearly by the king.  
When the Duke of Orleans entered the room, Louis realised that they hadn’t seen each other for quite a long time. In fact, since their last argument, which still wasn’t completely behind them.   
He tried to smile at Philippe, although there was very little cause for smiling.   
Monsieur looked somehow more of an old man than his brother did, even though he was actually two years younger. He was nearly fading next to Louis’ regal colourful presence. Always quite slender and elegant, but now the years, various illnesses and fevers he’d suffered in recent times had caused his weight to fluctuate sharply, he was worn out and debilitated. This caused all his clothes, however new or expensive, to look like they were hanging on a coat-stand. He also covered his receding hairline with a wig and dry wrinkled skin by layers of powder, which hid nothing and made him look even more forlorn. But Monsieur was trying anyway – and persistently.  
Because of his gout and arthritis he was leaning on a walking cane. He had a shuffling gait and gnarled hands. It had been so long he’d forgotten what it felt like to have joints that moved freely, without pain. His aches were his constant companions, not friends, but always with him. His memories both warmed and haunted him, sometimes drawing a smile and sometimes a tear. He had the resigned look of one who knows that life had stopped giving and only takes away. He became a shadow of his former self, vivacious and cheery moods long gone.  
“You wanted to see me, brother,” said Philippe primly, “so… here I am.”  
Louis hesitated for a second, thinking how best to proceed.   
“They told me you came alone,” he mentioned lightly and somehow tried to create a friendly atmosphere, “I thought the Chevalier would accompany you, if not your wife.”  
“My wife prefers closed company, you know that,” replied Philippe, “and the Chevalier’s in Paris. He… he’s not in my household anymore.”  
Louis nodded. “I know.”  
“But I went to see him, the day before yesterday. I hope he’ll be alright,” Philippe shrugged, “the doctor was really vague about it.”  
“Are you worried?” asked Louis.  
Philippe chuckled unhappily. “Of course I’m worried! He’s not the youngest, you know?”  
“He’s three years younger than you,” Louis pointed out.  
“Yes, thank you for the kind reminder.”  
Louis didn’t answer, he just looked at his brother and noticed that Monsieur’s fingers are clenching the head of the walking cane as he leaned on it more and more. The fashionable shoes with high heels had to torture his destroyed joints. Philippe was biting his lower lip to hide the pain and remain dignified in front of the king.  
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Monsieur asked sharply, frowning. “Do I look that terrible? And can we finally skip the small talk and proceed to the reason of my visit here?”  
“Bring him a chair, Bontemps,” ordered Louis.   
The command was carried out immediately and Philippe, who evidently would rather do anything else, accepted the chair, sat down and stared with envy at Louis, who started pacing in front of the windows.  
Then king stopped again.   
“I was hoping you might agree to have a little talk here before we join the guests,” he said, “I would like this dinner to be a pleasant event, I believe you share my wish.”  
“With all my heart,” nodded Philippe, who perhaps wished this event to be a short one, he didn’t even hope for it to be pleasant.  
“You probably won’t be surprised that I need to talk about your son once again. And about his behaviour at court.”  
Philippe nodded. “I see. Well? What about his behaviour?”  
“It’s unacceptable,” responded Louis sharply, “and I will no longer tolerate it. His disrespectful demeanour, his gambling, idleness, parading around the palace with his mistress-” he was interrupted by Philippe’s chuckle and frowned. “What? I’m not done yet.”  
“If you think this behaviour an outrage, brother, you must live at some other court. Or in another land,” said Philippe, amused, “he only does as all the others do.”  
“The others are not husbands to my daughter,” stated Louis coldly.  
“Illegitimate daughter,” Philippe corrected him and his voice was suddenly no friendlier than the king’s, “she should be grateful for this marriage and keep her mouth shut. The union itself is a disgrace and, maybe you remember, I’ve told you it won’t work.”  
“It certainly won’t when you keep inciting your son against her!”  
“My opinion is mine only and unlike some, I have no urge to control every minute of other people’s lives. My son is an adult and what he does is completely up to him. You can’t expect fathers who led a certain life to reproach their sons morally or otherwise.”  
Louis frowned. “You’re refusing my request?”  
“Yes.”  
“Do you even know what scandals he causes? Just last week he claimed himself an atheist!”  
Philippe chuckled. “Yes, I’ve heard about that.”  
“That’s your only reaction? You even sound like you’re proud!”  
“The fact that you have indeed no reason to be proud of your son doesn’t mean it’s the same for all of us,” objected Philippe gleefully, “of course I’m proud of him.”  
Louis had been in his position for long enough to manage his face and emotions completely, so this time he swallowed the insult and chose a different tactic.  
“Every father is proud of his son,” said Louis in a conciliatory manner, “but every father is also responsible. A good marriage is the backbone of this country.”  
“Says the man, who worried his own wife to death.”  
Louis clasped his hands in frustration. “Could you tell me, why this can’t be a normal conversation? Do you always have to have the last word?”  
“I’m trying to have the last word for last sixty years,” retorted Philippe, “unsuccessfully. You want me to talk to my son and ask him to eat from your hand, very well. But I have a condition.”  
Louis frowned. “What condition?”   
Philippe looked up to him. “If you recall, my son married your daughter for a reason. You gave us a promise. I want you to keep it. Do that and I’ll talk to my son.”  
“I promised to give him a proper position,” nodded Louis, “and I will, after he proves himself worth it.”  
“Worth it?” exclaimed Philippe as he heaved himself up. “Worth it? This isn’t some matter for your consideration, it was a simple deal! Our family agreed to take your bastard, yet you give nothing in return!” He looked at the chair and at Bontemps. “Take this away, boy. I don’t think I’ll sit in the presence of the king.”  
“I’m giving you everything!” returned Louis.   
“That’s what I’m talking about! We’re not your dogs to be treated this way, no matter if you think so. My son is a grandson of a king, just as yours. You complained about his idleness, but you know damn well he’d do anything for you, all you have to do is ask! He already bled for you at Mons, Steenkerque, Namur, Landen – isn’t that enough? You give titles, honours and lands to your bastards, who did nothing except for having mothers with nice breasts, but your legitimate nephew is still nothing but a shadow! Just as I used to be! Is it really so hard to show us some respect?”  
“If anyone, you should blame yourself,” retorted Louis, “you never did anything to earn my respect in any way.”  
“Don’t you dare,” hissed Philippe, “don’t you dare, I warn you. I had only the life you’ve allowed me to have. For all those years just watching, waiting for the scraps from your table! I want my son to live, not… whatever you made me do. He deserves a chance and you promised me he’ll have it!”  
“And he will, when he does as I ask.”  
“Just spare me those excuses! I will not let you exploit him!”  
“Is it really exploitation when a king demands obedience from his subjects?” exclaimed Louis.   
“You just need someone like that, don’t you?” claimed Philippe, heavily breathing. “Someone whom you can always crush, diminish and belittle just to feel more like the Almighty!” His voice raising. “You’ve had me, but that’s somehow not fun anymore, is it? So, you take my son instead and make me watch how everything will repeat over and over – how many generations will it take? It’s still the same – you’re afraid of him, because you know that he’s better than all your brats together!” He yelled the last sentence.  
“May I remind you that you’re obliged to show some respect for the children of the king of France?” shouted Louis.  
“I won’t show any respect for any children as long as you’re not showing any respect for mine!” retorted Philippe. “He married your daughter, even that isn’t enough for you to accept him?”  
The argument was gaining momentum as both brothers were losing their temper.  
“I would, if he was the husband she deserves, as I’ve already told you!”  
“He is a far better husband than she deserves! If you stopped being so uncritical of all your creations, you might see it!”  
“What was I thinking I could expect from you?” exclaimed Louis angrily. “I’ll make it clear – I will not let your son ridicule my daughter by his debaucheries! And I’ll stop him one way or another!”  
“Do you think my son has any choice?” screamed Philippe. “Answer me! Day by day walking behind you, with no trust put in him, nothing better than your daughter’s toy and a patch to cover the scandal she was born from!”  
“Now you talk about scandals!”  
“You started it!”  
Suddenly the sound of an opening door stopped Louis from his answer. He turned around sharply to see who dares to interrupt.  
“Do you realise everyone in the salon can hear you?” asked Madame of Maintenon quietly nodding at Bontemps to close the door again. She was a kind, gracefully aging woman, already dressed for dinner.  
Philippe watched Louis being suddenly cooled and made a face. “I see why you keep a governess around.”  
“You stop it too,” she turned to him, not at all upset by his remark, “these arguments are beneath you. Both of you.” She looked at Philippe more carefully and added: “Sit down before we’ll have to pick you from the carpet.”  
If Bontemps had an opinion about carrying in and taking away the chair over and over, he kept it perfectly for himself. Philippe sat down again.  
“It is essential for these matters to be discussed,” stated Louis trying to gain a control over situation.  
“But I’m sure you don’t need the assistance of the whole chateau,” smiled Maintenon, but her voice was still a little reprimanding, “I’m sure you’ll solve it later. Calmly.”  
Louis nodded. “We should dine then, if everything is ready.”  
“Maybe,” Maintenon took a side look at Philippe, who was still red and heavily breathing after the argument, now, when he lost Louis’ attention, “maybe a little rest first? Dinner can wait.”  
Monsieur looked up to her. “I’m alright,” he assured her and got up, “but thank you for your care, madam.”  
“Are you sure?”  
Philippe looked at Louis and back at her. “I’m alright,” he repeated, more emphatically, “let’s dine.”  
Maintenon was still not convinced, but she didn’t raise any more objections.   
She smiled. “Anyway, I’m glad you’re here, Monsieur.”  
Philippe gave her a suspicious look. “Really?”  
“Of course,” she nodded, “you know you’re always welcome. God knows how I’m trying to keep this family together at least seemingly.”  
Louis chuckled. “I’m afraid, madam, you’re trying to push water uphill with a rake.”  
“Then you both can prove yourselves as gentlemen and give me a bucket,” she responded with a playful wink, “let’s dine. I’m sure we can have a pleasant conversation there.”  
Louis smiled, offered his arm to Maintenon and they came out of the room. Philippe sighed and shortly closed his eyes, but then he clenched his teeth, grasped his cane more firmly, got up and followed them.   
Maintenon’s remark that everyone in the salon could hear the argument was probably true, as the quiet murmuring from the courtiers suggested. They all bowed when the King entered who answered with a nod towards the Dauphin, a forty-year-old man, who seemed content to be constantly failing in the eyes of his father. By the Dauphin’s side stood his son, the nineteen-year-old Duke of Burgundy, the only person meeting the king’s satisfaction. In the group behind them, some were also sons of the king – but not of the queen. And other dukes, counts, marquises… in summary forty people.   
“I hope you’ve had a pleasant day,” turned Louis to the Dauphin, who took place by his side, “what were you doing?”  
The Dauphin opened his eyes in surprise. “Doing? I… was sitting in the garden, Your Majesty.”  
“And…?”  
When the Dauphin shook his head, Louis sighed and tried not to turn around to discover if Philippe was smiling. I just hope that when I die, he thought, they won’t have to announce only that the king is dead.   
The company came through the door to another salon, where the ladies waited. Madame of Maintenon had been with them, until she stepped in to calm the argument.  
One of the young women, a beautiful creature in her best years, immediately approached the king.  
“Your Majesty,” she started and quickly curtseyed, “I only want to ask if you-”  
“Of course he did, madam,” answered Philippe before Louis even managed to open his mouth, “your father did exactly as you’ve asked, as always. It’s been a real joy.”  
“I’m glad that your opinion is such, Monsieur,” smiled Françoise, Duchess of Chartres, the king’s daughter and Philippe’s daughter-in-law.  
Louis decided not to make a fuss in public, so he just exchanged glances with Maintenon and lead the company further.   
The Duchess of Chartres appeared next to Philippe to his little joy. Although he understood that she didn’t have much to say in the matter of her marriage, something in her behaviour and the way she showed her superiority over the family she had married into made him furious. She would never say anything, so not to lose her father’s favour, but her attitude was clear enough.  
“How’s my husband, Monsieur?” she smiled at him. “And what is he doing at Saint Cloud when his wife is here?”  
Philippe looked at her. “A better question, madam - what are you doing here when your husband is at Saint Cloud?”  
“Oh, you can’t ask me to bury myself in such a hole when there is so much fun at court,” she answered, “once you enter and you desire nothing more than never to leave.”  
“Then I must inform you, madam, your husband is having a good time in that hole,” said Philippe coldly.  
“How delightful,” Françoise nodded, “I wish him a good time. However, I’d prefer he enjoyed himself in my presence.”  
“I think he used to, but that’s exactly what your father finds unacceptable, madam,” said Philippe, “but I’ll pass him your message.”  
“Thank you. I’ve not seen him for so long I fear he wouldn’t even recognise me in the crowd.”  
“Don’t worry, he’ll recognise you,” Monsieur assured her, “you’re the only woman who’ll never learn how to dress properly – not even when you accidentally find yourself sober.”   
He didn’t notice that Louis gave an invisible command at that moment, and suddenly a few people moved aside, slowed down or somehow rearranged themselves causing Philippe to be by king’s side and the Dauphin offering an arm to his step-sister.   
Louis expected some sharp commentary, but it didn’t come, his brother stayed quiet.  
Philippe knew Louis probably heard what he said to Françoise and he also knew he shouldn’t do that, but now he didn’t care about politeness or anything, he just silently prayed to God to slow Louis down a little bit. Even the walk across the chateau and several staircases exhausted him. The pain in his back and legs was sharp like a knife stabbing, and the headache, which troubled him all day, was getting worse, pulsating and causing tiny flashes in front of his eyes. He thought he would vomit if it continued. At that moment, he wished nothing more than to leave, find some corner and scream and cry, but he couldn’t do anything. Let’s play the masquerade, he thought when Louis looked at him once again.   
Philippe smiled.  
Finally, they reached the dinner table and sat down. Monsieur was never more grateful for a chair in his life and named it the greatest of all the God’s inventions.

The dinner was lavish and opulent, as always. Several hors d’oeuvres, creamy soup, then a handsome fish dish followed. The servants were laying silver platters in front of the guests on top of which sat fleshy pink strips of trout, garnished with dashing’s of green herbs. The fish course was supplemented by a side plate of mussels. Their black shells lay open, their beige insides spilling out - sickening yet enticing. The servants returned from the kitchen with the main meal - a full spit roasted pig, its skin a sizzling, mouth-watering golden brown, jaws prised around a green apple.   
The two servants had harmonised their heavy breathing with the screeching wheels of the cart as they pushed the pig to be sat in front of the King. Cuts of the pork had been served with a refreshing apple sauce, easing the perfectly cooked meat down. It had been accompanied by potatoes diced in a bowl with carrots, mushrooms and leeks topped off with a healthy dash of spice that stung the throat in the most pleasurable way. Many other courses followed, poultry, venison, countless cheeses and of course plenty of wine.  
The Brothers didn’t talk with each other or anyone else, they just looked at their meal, gulping it down, like they were trying to avoid conversation by always having their mouth full. Madame of Maintenon was keeping an eye on them with a worried wrinkle between her eyebrows. All the others, and there were more than a hundred people, servants and a violin quartet included, were having a good time in the warm summer evening. At least sitting and warm food brought some relief to Philippe.   
The tight atmosphere was starting to fade when it came to the dessert.  
“How is your wife?” Louis asked lightly.   
“In bed, at the moment,” his brother equally carefully responded, “sunstroke, nothing serious. You know she never uses a parasol.”  
“And your son decided to stay with her?” smiled Maintenon, happy for the little signs of reconciliation.   
“I’m sure that’s one of his reasons,” shrugged Philippe and took a sip of wine, “but his son’s teeth are starting to appear and Marie is a little startled. Personally, I wouldn’t spend my days and nights with a screaming infant, but it’s his choice.”  
“I didn’t know you kept her at Saint Cloud,” Françoise took her eyes away from the cake.  
Philippe raised an eyebrow. “And where is she supposed to be? She makes pleasant company. And my grandson looks exactly like his father when he was born, strong and healthy.” There was a noticeable pride in Philippe’s voice.  
Louis looked at his frowning daughter who gave her husband three daughters, the youngest one born just a few days before the son of mademoiselle de Séry.  
“Maybe I was wrong in my judgements,” said Louis, “your son should definitely appear at court more often. And maybe stop ignoring the fact that this bastard is not the only child he has.”  
“No parent can love all their children,” responded Philippe coldly, “we’re living proof of that after all. Perhaps if he had a reason…”  
“Perhaps if he had the sense for some basic decency…” returned Louis.  
“I’m sure he had many opportunities to create such a sense, spending his days at your court.”  
Maintenon cleared her throat several times, but without any effect.   
“It’s not me, who is to answer for your son’s upbringing!” exclaimed Louis and some people around him went silent.  
“And I thought you oversee everything in this country,” Philippe taunted him, “that’s what you wanted, isn’t it? If you give him the position you promised-”  
“Will you shut up about it!”  
“I will not shut up until you for once do as I ask!” exclaimed Philippe and got up. Not jumped up, as he probably would of some years ago, but it was quite enough. Anger was filling his head with red heat. “I know how he feels,” he continued, “a knowledge you’ll never have. I was in his position, but unlike me, he has a father to stand by him, I won’t allow your whimsies-”   
“You have nothing to allow me!” Louis interrupted him.   
Most of the courtiers now went silent, fascinated by the exchange. Maintenon was trying to look as if she wasn’t there. The violin quartet was a little unsure if to play, but no one gave a command to stop.  
Louis shouted. “If you think I’ll stand by and just watch my daughter be humiliated, forced to watch her husband with that woman!”  
“Marie d’Argenton!”  
“I don’t care what her name is!” The King got up and every one dutifully followed. He didn’t even notice. “Your son is a disgrace and I’m tired of waiting for him to perform marital duties as is expected from the royal family!”  
“Do you mean he should find more mistresses?” laughed Philippe. “That surely could be arranged. How dare you scold my son, you, who’s nothing better – on the contrary, you’re worse in every possible way!”  
An immediate and complete silence came across the room. Bontemps and Maintenon stared at each other, not sure what to do or how to stop it. But, as everyone else, they were helpless.  
“Apologise,” asked Louis quietly.  
“No.”  
“In that case you force me to take more unpleasant methods and reduce your pension. Should I really do that?”  
“This is what always works, isn’t it?” Philippe proudly jerked his head. “Not this time, dear brother, you can do as you wish, but I won’t agree with anything that would put my son into the same gilded prison in which I’ve spent most of my life. Of a life, which you sucked from me, bit by bit and left nothing, there’s no reason why this should be called a life and not simply surviving! Just look at me!”  
Louis looked. “And what am I supposed to see?”   
Philippe started a silent laugh.  
“And what’s so funny?” Louis wanted to know.  
“I just did what I wanted you to do,” explained Philippe, “I looked at my life. And I’m laughing, because, you must admit, it’s actually a very good joke.”  
“Sit down,” appealed Louis.  
“That’s the best answer you have?”  
“Take a seat. Now!”  
“If you think-”  
“Sit down, for God’s sake, you’re bleeding!” exclaimed Louis and Philippe finally noticed that several drops of blood running from his nose dirtied the snow-white table cloth. He impatiently took out a handkerchief and stopped the stream.  
The King sat down, so did everyone else except Philippe.  
“Should I call for my doctor?” asked Louis and his brother quickly shook his head.   
“This happens sometimes. I’m alright.”  
“Brother, you’re everything but alright!”  
“I said I’m alright!” barked Philippe, took the cane and pushed his chair away. “But I think I’m quite finished here, excuse me.”  
Some people wanted to stop him, but Louis raised his hand in denial, so all the court watched the Duke of Orleans heading to the castle, followed by his servants.  
The king sighed and leaned towards Maintenon.  
“During my rule,” he said, “this country was struck by a war, famine, a coup, poverty and an outbreak of smallpox… but I swear he caused most of my wrinkles.”  
“Is he alright?” whispered Maintenon.  
Louis shrugged. “I suppose. Don’t worry.” Then he laughed a little. “He knows if he left this world, my life could easily be too peaceful. He’d never allow that.”

“Prepare my carriage,” said Philippe sharply to his servant once they appeared out of the garden, and threw away the blood-soaked handkerchief. Bad luck this happened right in front of Louis. Philippe had become used to having nosebleeds which for a while always made him feel better afterwards, though he was unsure why.  
“A carriage, Monsieur?”  
“Yes, we’re leaving.”

Later that day, Saint Cloud  
Her Royal Highness, Madame, Duchess of Orléans, was lying in bed with a cold wet cloth on her forehead. A solid, mannish woman, who never suffered any nonsense, which probably had saved her from a breakdown about her husband’s behaviour in previous years, although it would be too much to say she hadn’t minded it. It wasn’t jealousy, because she didn’t see herself as someone who should catch any man’s eye. She was never a beauty and with the years she had also gained weight, so she amusedly described herself as good to eat as a roasted suckling pig. She knew about finesse and subtlety, but she decided she had nothing in common with those.  
When her husband was announced, she raised her eyebrow in surprise and ordered to send him in.  
“We didn’t expect you so soon, Monsieur,” she uttered, when he entered the rooms, followed by his servant helping him with his coat. Philippe sat in the chair, kicked his shoes off and closed his eyes in relief.  
“Nobody did, actually,” he quietly admitted, “how are you?”  
“Imprisoned in my own bed by my own ladies,” shrugged Liselotte, “I’m bored stiff. How is the king?”  
“Sadly not so stiff,” replied Philippe.  
“And that old witch at least is?”  
“Which one? The court is full of old witches.”  
“The king’s one.”  
“Maintenon?” Philippe chuckled. “Not likely to die any time soon, Madame. You’re quite bloodthirsty today.”  
Liselotte frowned. “And you’re bloodied,” she pointed out as she noticed his dirty jabot, “what happened?”   
Philippe shrugged and tried to keep the easy tone. “Just the usual. We just… he…” Then he decided to put all the pretence aside and blew a fuse: “Why is he just so… so…”   
“Stubborn?” Liselotte was trying to help. “Arrogant? Disdainful?”  
Philippe shook his head. “So much! Just… too much.” Suddenly all his anger, despair, hopelessness, futility of his efforts grasped him. “God knows I stood by him, all my life. And I never asked myself why. Maybe I should have done something, perhaps I shouldn’t let him become… whatever he became. Once he said he wanted to build a temple. I just didn’t realise he was serious. He built a temple for gods and he created one. How could we allow that? How did it happen?”  
He hunched in the armchair, slowly pulled his wig off, threw it away and whispered: “I just look at this madness and I cannot believe I am part of it. It’s so… distant now. So big it scares me sometimes. He created this freak show, what will happen next? What if one day it ends, he’ll fall from that pedestal? I’m not so sure there’ll be anyone to catch him.”  
“And that’s what worries you?” asked Liselotte.  
“What? No!” Philippe snorted. “He can do whatever he wants, why should I care.”  
His head was starting to hurt again and so his back. He hissed and got up in hope to walk it off, but the cane slipped through his stiffened, achy fingers. It was hard to breathe and his stomach was queasy. And then he saw himself in Liselotte’s mirror – without the coat, without shoes with heels, without his wig. He watched himself and he couldn’t believe it and he couldn’t recognise the worn-out, repulsive, pathetic being he saw. The tears welled up in his eyes, angry tears. He hated everything, every inch of that body he used to like.  
“Come to me, my little wreck,” Liselotte resolutely disturbed the moment and her husband obeyed, he came and sat down on the edge of her bed.  
She took his hands and held them between hers to warm them and ease his arthritis.   
“What will I do?” whispered Philippe.  
“What you will do or what you should do?” asked his wife matter-of-factly, not allowing Philippe to fall into some melancholy by comforting him.   
He smiled lightly. “Tell me both.”  
“Well, I expect you will just sit here and feel sorry for yourself.”  
“Madame,” Philippe turned to her, “I think a runaway bull would show more tact than you.”  
Liselotte didn’t seem offended. “And about what you should do,” she continued dispassionately, “you should take a bath. Hot water always helps your joints, doesn’t it?”  
Philippe shook his head. “Not today.”  
“Then eat something, take your medicine and go to bed. Perhaps you want to sleep here tonight?”  
He didn’t answer, so she tilted his head to look in his eyes.   
She smiled. “And don’t worry. From the two of us you’re still the handsome one.”  
Philippe burst with laughter. “Then I shall take you out with me more often,” he said.  
“Once I stop feeling like my brain was cooked…”  
“I’ve told you to take that parasol,” reminded Philippe, “that’s why every sane woman uses them.”  
“Every sane woman and you, occasionally.”  
Philippe giggled. “I’ve not done that for ages…”  
“I was thinking,” Liselotte changed the subject, “we should go to Vichy for the summer. We’ll pull ourselves together and return just in time for the autumn ball season.”  
“Since when do you care about balls?”  
She shrugged. “Maybe since my husband started to look like a walking corpse when returning from them, but still insisted on attending.”  
“You are unbelievable, Madame,” Philippe shook his head amusedly, “what will I do with you.”  
“You could have me thrown into the river,” she answered, “but fetch enough servants for the job.”  
“I recall you can swim, Madame,” Philippe accepted the game, “once we even swam together, remember?”  
Liselotte laughed and nodded. “Yes, the boat capsized. I’m sure we were the highlight of your brother’s celebrations. And when they dragged us on the shore, my coiffure was destroyed and you lost a shoe. You made a fuss like a three-year-old.”  
Philippe chuckled. “I don’t remember that.”  
“Well, I do.”   
A knock on the door interrupted them and a valet entered.  
“Monsieur,” he bowed, “the Duke of Chartres asks if you and Madame will join him and the company for supper. Also – some visitors have arrived from Paris.”  
Liselotte raised an eyebrow. “From Paris?”  
“Yes, Madame. They say they have a message for Monsieur from the Chevalier de Lorraine.”  
The Duke and Duchess of Orleans looked at each other and a little lasting smile appeared on Philippe’s lips.  
He got up and a valet quickly handed him the cane from the ground.  
“I’ll go,” Philippe announced and turned to his wife, “you?”  
Liselotte shook her head. “I didn’t eat anything today and I won’t.”  
Philippe nodded, shrugged and said surprisingly gaily: “Very well, Madame, but I’m off to supper, because, unlike you, I’m hungry.” 

In a short time, Philippe was fully dressed again and slowly going down the stairs.  
The main valet approached him in front of the dining hall, followed by two young men, genteel, svelte boys with curly hair, blushing powdered cheeks and angelic faces.  
Philippe looked at them and smiled. “You’re from Paris, aren’t you?”  
They nodded.  
“So… what’s the message?”  
The duo smiled and exchanged meaningful stares. “Chevalier de Lorraine wishes you good health and a pleasant evening. But it’s not very important what exactly is in the message, but who brings the message, Your Royal Highness. We’re both at your service.”  
Philippe looked at the visitors once again, properly this time. He chose one of them, slowly caressed his cheek and felt how fine his hair was.   
“Very well,” he nodded, satisfied, “I think you’ll do. Have a meal with us. I’m sure we’ll find some time for a conversation later.”  
The boys smiled and bowed. The valet took them to the dining room and in the same moment another group of people joined Philippe under the stairs. He greeted all of them and they continued to the dining room, only one stayed by Philippe’s side. His son and namesake.   
Young Philippe took a lot from Monsieur, but he lacked his father’s delicacy or, as others would call it, effeminacy. He was a tall, well built, attractive young man with pale skin, black hair and seductively intelligent blue eyes. Unlike his father he took a great interest in geography, history, philosophy, genealogy, physics and other natural sciences, but what he inherited undoubtedly was a love for any kind of art and an indisputable charm as well as inclination for scandalous behaviour. At court, the young Duke of Chartres became known as womaniser and a cynic without any moral principles, unwilling to submit to the rules of any kind.  
Now he turned to his father and uttered, tongue in cheek:  
“I see you’ve received some new pieces from the latest slave auction.”  
Philippe raised an eyebrow. “And if? Are you going to admonish me?”  
His son grimaced, amused. “As if my disapproval would change anything,” he said and added disinterestedly: “How old are they, fifteen?”  
“They’re not fifteen!” protested Philippe.  
Chartres chuckled. “If they’re from Chevalier, I wouldn’t put it past them. He knows your taste, father… as do I.”  
“Your own mistress isn’t much older than these two, and do I say anything against her?”  
“You don’t,” the young man shrugged, “but I couldn’t be her grandfather. Just make sure they can keep up with you and that your bed’s firm enough.”  
Philippe chuckled and playfully hit his son by the cane. “Watch your tongue,” he cautioned him, “and come.” 

It was just an informal, family supper. Chestnut soup, wild duck cromesquis and morel soufflé, rare roast beef slices as thin as paper, green and fresh herb salad in gold leaf, iced cheese that melts on your tongue served with sweet blue grapes. The servers, all young people dressed in excessively embellished uniforms moved wordlessly to and from the table, keeping the plates and glasses full.  
Excluding servants, there were some twenty people. The Duke of Chartres took place by his father’s side, next to him there was the young beauty, with her round face and sparkling eyes, mademoiselle de Séry.   
“How is my grandson?” asked Philippe, after they finished the first course in silence.  
“Better now, Monsieur,” mademoiselle de Séry answered, a surprised smile on her face, “we finally managed to lull him to sleep.”  
“You mean I managed it,” her lover corrected her.  
“You? You came in for the last five minutes!”  
“And that time in his father’s arms was all he needed.”  
“Or he finally exhausted himself,” remarked mademoiselle.  
Monsieur smiled with indulgence, listening to their exchange of views, and then changed the subject: “I had a talk with your uncle today.”  
Young Philippe turned to him. “And? What did he say?”  
“It seems your wife isn’t very satisfied with her position in marriage. His Majesty also complained about your unacceptable behaviour from last weeks. He urged me to question you about the matter.”  
The Duke of Chartres pressed his lips together and turned his eyes to the wood grain of the table, expecting a storm, or at least a long and tiring scolding, which he somehow could ignore better when it came from the king than his father.   
But the storm didn’t come, the young man waited and then asked: “Well… what?”  
Philippe shrugged. “Your uncle urged me to admonish you, I didn’t say I would. I sent him to hell with that.”  
The Duke of Chartres was quite skilled when it came to reading between the lines, so he easily surmised the rest. “Father, you shouldn’t-”  
“Shouldn’t what?”  
“I mean… I was thinking…”  
“Yes?”  
“Is it reasonable to stand against him like that? I’d rather you give me the scolding he wants you to and later I’ll ask him to keep you out of this. What I do or not do is one thing, but to oppose him so publicly… I’m not you and the times are different. What good can come from that?”  
Philippe nodded. “You’re right. I cannot decide this for you. It isn’t easy to oppose the king, it never was. He has power over all the France, over our family, me, you, he can give or take anything with a blink of an eye. He can be generous, if you do as he wishes. He’s never cruel, only practical. Consider if you value what you have against his will more than what he could give you otherwise. But whatever you do, be sure of one thing - you’re not alone in that. I’m on your side. Always.”  
The speech somehow upset him, perhaps because he couldn’t tell if he truly meant it or not. After all those years, honestly, he didn’t know anymore what made sense and what’s just a habit. His head ached again and he felt somewhat dizzy. Liselotte was right, maybe he should go and rest, as soon as he can. It was hard to breathe and he felt he can easily start to bleed again, but this was important, he had to finish this first. He watched his son, who slowly exhaled, looked at his father, then at mademoiselle de Séry and back. She turned to her neighbour on the other side to give the two Philippe’s some privacy.  
“I won’t give her up,” whispered the son, “for anything and anyone. I love her, truly.”  
Monsieur nodded. “I understand. It’s both a blessing and curse.”   
A servant took his empty plate and put a dessert on front of him. Philippe didn’t even touch the cutlery, but reached for the decanter to pour a liquor in hope to help his queasiness.  
“How can you understand that, father?” asked the Duke de Chartres. “You never loved anyone. Or… did you?”  
Philippe chuckled to his son’s surprised look: “And whom do you think you took that disposition after?”   
“Mother?”  
Monsieur burst out laughing and suddenly a severe, sharp pain erupted right behind his left eye. He gasped and dropped the glass, seeing nothing but a white light. He didn’t know what this was, what’s going on and the pain was getting worse and worse and it was pounding and caustic. Gripping and releasing, again and again. He swayed to one side and somehow he lost himself in the space, all the boundaries of his body were blurred and pervading the outside world. It was like his consciousness shifted away from the normal perception. He didn’t know is he’s sitting, standing, flying and he heard some vague distant noises… bangs, creaking of chairs… And everything inside his body has slowed down, it was too slow to control… it was strange, he couldn’t define where he began and where he ended… and he felt he lurched and he’s losing balance and falling… and suddenly a voice quite close and two strong arms around him appeared, supporting him, and the voice repeating: “Father! Father, look at me, look at me! Try to stand, that’s alright, stay with me… Fetch the doctor, someone, quickly! Father, father, please!” And then it stopped and Philippe didn’t see and didn’t hear and even his mind went silent, so silent, no thoughts, no tiny voices anymore… he felt just terrified to appear inside a silent mind, but only for a moment – then he was suddenly mesmerised by the magnificence of the world without the restrictions, without the structure, without the limits of any kind, everything just blurred together. He felt enormous and expansive and it was beautiful… so beautiful there…  
And then the pieces got back together, like the turning of a key and he realised he was lying on something soft and there were things flying above him… faces? Flying faces?  
“Monsieur!” A voice. A woman’s voice. And someone shook him.  
Philippe was slowly realising - perhaps he should know more, something is wrong. Wait, he recognises the face, he knows that woman.   
“Madame?” he whispered and felt like his face was half motionless, as if covered by drying mortar.  
Indeed, it was motionless, everyone saw it. After he collapsed at the table, his son was trying to pull him up and walk through the room, because it seemed Monsieur could do that, at least for a while.   
Now he was lying in a small bed, quickly set up in his cabinet, the right side of his body lifeless, including the face, lower lip swollen and hanging.  
Liselotte was close to fainting, but as usual, she put aside her feelings and adamantly shook her husband again.  
“Do you hear me?” she urged. “Monsieur! Listen when I’m talking to you!”  
He looked at her and Liselotte felt he recognised her.  
She breathed out and asked simply: “How are you feeling?”  
Philippe’s lips moved and he mumbled: “A little better… Madame… you should be in bed. You are ill.”  
He was trying to say some more, but his own tongue and lips were betraying him. Liselotte was trying as hard as she could to understand those sounds which were meant to be words, but then she cut off his efforts.  
“It’s not important now,” she said emphatically. “Do not think of me, think of yourself.”  
“You… should go away…”  
“I’m staying with you,” she insisted and pressed his hand, “I’m your wife, Monsieur, my place is here, as always has been.”  
“Madame, please…leave.”  
“Get up and get me out then,” she replied. “I’m staying otherwise. And calm down. It’s alright, you understand? Everything will be alright.”  
The Duke of Chartres, pale as death, tapped on her shoulder, his eyes widened in horror and fixed on his father.  
“The doctor is here, mother.”  
Liselotte got up and stepped aside to make way for the doctor and his assistants, but when her husband’s hand fumbled for hers, she bent and caught it again.  
“He needs to bleed,” the doctor announced, “and I brought an emetic and clyster. That’s our only chance.”   
“Why?” Duke of Chartres finally found his tongue. “How can that help against the stroke?”  
The doctor turned around, irritated. “I’m sorry, Your Royal Highness, but the art of medicine is complicated-”  
“I’m not the doctor,” retorted young Philippe, “but I can read! I read Hippocrates and Galen and Paré’s works, none of them talked about an emetic helping these conditions, my father wasn’t poisoned! Where did you find that out?”  
“Philippe!” Liselotte exclaimed. “This really isn’t the time for showing off!”  
“But mother!”  
“Just shut up!”  
During the argument, the doctor’s assistant handed him two little bottles of liquid.  
“These are English drops,” he announced and Liselotte’s furious stare shut her son up before he asked for some details, “His Royal Highness is to drink it.”  
He uncorked the bottle and the liquid inside smelled so terribly that Monsieur, even half paralyzed, recoiled.  
“Your Royal Highness has to drink it,” insisted the doctor without any effect.  
Liselotte took the bottle and supported her husband’s head.  
“Drink it,” she ordered, “now.”  
Philippe gave up and drank what she gave him.   
“Everything will be alright,” repeated Liselotte, “or would you want me to go to a cloister as your widow? You must be alright, do you understand? This is not a negotiation. You’ll be alright.”  
And that was the first time she didn’t say exactly what she meant. She thought the opposite, because everyone in the room knew this wouldn’t be alright, not this time.  
“Maybe…,” mademoiselle de Séry suddenly spoke, “… maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea to inform His Majesty about this.”  
The Duke de Chartres swallowed heavily, exchanged a glance with his mother and then nodded to one of the valets.  
“She is right. Send a message to the king.”

After Philippe’s departure, the dinner at Chateau de Marly continued and ended with no greater incident, yet it left a bitter taste in the King’s mouth.  
The sky behind the windows had already darkened and he sat in his chair, dressed for bed, watching Madame de Maintenon, also in her nightie, brushing her hair in front of the mirror. She preferred a little privacy after being constantly pampered by her ladies.  
When she finally finished her hair, and plaited it, she poured a dose of something viscous, smelling of roses.  
“What’s that?” amusedly asked Louis.  
She smiled and started to massage the substance in the skin of her face and cleavage.  
“Just a perfumed tallow.”  
“Tallow?”  
“And some other things, lead, sulphur... It prevents wrinkles,” she grimaced and added: “at least I’m still vain enough to believe that.”  
Louis smiled. “You want to stay young forever?”  
“Maybe I just want to stay,” she responded and kept spreading the cream. The King got up, came to her and held her head in his hands, so she looked in his eyes.  
“Why do you think I married you?” asked Louis.  
“To save yourself from a life in sin?”  
Louis shook his head. “You should know best that if my life was a coat, my sins would be the stitches.”  
“Are they really so necessary?”  
“The coat would be hardly the same without them. Without many of them. No, my soul isn’t to be redeemed. I married you, because I already gave so much to those before you – and I knew I wanted to give you even more. I could be with them, but you’re the only one I can’t be without.”  
Maintenon smiled. “Including my grey hair, wrinkled skin, stretchmarks and falling breasts, I suppose?”  
Louis chuckled. “Especially the falling breasts.”  
She got up and kissed him lightly. “Come to sleep. It seems you really need it.”  
The King nodded, Madame de Maintenon unmade the bed for him, then she lay down on her half and blew out the candle.  
Everything in the chamber went silent, peaceful, ready to sleep, until Madame de Maintenon felt a hand under her nightie.  
“Louis,” she said questioningly, “what are you doing?”  
“Maybe I’m looking for your falling breasts. They don’t seem to be in place.”  
“Oh, stop it!” Maintenon giggled and tried to push away king’s groping hand. “Louis! Stop it!”  
“Stop it?” he smiled. “You would give a command to your king?”  
“As a decent woman I would. And don’t tell me you would make love to a crone.”  
“No, of course I wouldn’t,” agreed Louis, “but what does crone have in common with you, my springtime petal?”  
Madame de Maintenon sighed with resignation. “Husband?”  
“Yes?”  
“You are impossible.”   
Louis laughed and wanted to say something, when suddenly the door opened and the king’s valet entered.  
“Your Majesty”  
“Bontemps!” stormed Louis.   
“I’m sorry to interrupt, Your Majesty,” Bontemps quickly apologised, “really, but it’s important, very important.”  
“You better hope so,” growled Louis.  
“The message came, sire, from Saint Cloud.”  
Louis raised an eyebrow. “From my brother? It seems he’s destined to spoil this day entirely. What does he want so urgently you have to burst in like this?”  
“The message is from Madame. She says Monsieur has suffered a stroke and his family fears for his life.”  
Bontemps said it simply, factually, and waited for a reaction from the king. Which didn’t come, however, Louis kept staring as if his valet just pulled out a rabbit from a hat.  
“My brother… what?” said Louis finally.  
“Madame fears your brother is dying, Your Majesty,” repeated Bontemps.  
“No, he isn’t!” Louis blurted out and ignored that Maintenon caught his hand. “My brother can’t… he was here, he was here today!”  
“Yes, Your Majesty. It seems His Royal Highness collapsed during supper.”  
Louis slowly looked away, then at Madame de Maintenon, then back at Bontemps. And after a long silence he slowly said: “This must be some mistake, surely. It can’t be serious.”  
“Do you wish to speak directly with the messenger, Your Majesty?”   
Louis somehow finally found his usual energy and ordered: “Have my carriage prepared, Bontemps, call my dressers and fetch my doctor. Now.”  
The valet hesitated. “Your Majesty wants… to go to Saint Cloud in this hour?”  
“Yes, Bontemps, and if you’ll stand there and stare just for a minute longer, Your Majesty will walk to Saint Cloud in his nightdress.”  
“Your Majesty-”  
“Just go!” barked Louis and Bontemps hurried from the room.  
Louis quickly got up from his bed.  
“Do you think it’s that serious?” asked Maintenon. “You can send someone. And I’m certain they’ll inform you if any change.”  
“What kind of change exactly?” frowned Louis.   
The dressers arrived and quickly started doing their job.   
“I have to make sure myself,” Louis explained, “maybe it’s nothing, yes, but I’d rather hear it from him.”  
“And what if it is some new trick of his?” asked Maintenon sharply. “To worry you into getting what he wants?”  
“If it is so, I’ll strangle him with my bare hands,” promised Louis, “but Liselotte isn’t the kind of woman who’d participate in something like that.”  
Madame de Maintenon got up too. “I’ll go with you.”  
“You stay here. Go to bed and sleep, I’ll be right back.”  
“Are you sure?”  
“Quite sure,” Louis nodded, fully dressed, approached her and kissed her cheek, “good night.”

On arrival at Saint Cloud, Louis immediately realised that something serious had happened. The servants were running from here to there, with motionless, worried faces.  
“Your Majesty!”  
Louis suppressed a tiny wave of irritation when he saw the Duke of Chartres running towards him down the stairs.  
Chartres bowed. “Your Majesty… we didn’t expect you to come.”  
“I was told my brother is unwell,” said Louis strictly and frowned when the young man kept standing in his way.  
“Yes… my father… is unwell,” agreed young Philippe, “he is very unwell.”  
Louis held himself back to avoid slapping him, but he also saw that Chartres’ face was pale and was nervously moving of his hands. An icy fist squeezed his heart when he fully realised that this isn’t a trick or a misunderstanding, this is, however possible, this is real. This is happening right now.  
“I want to see him.”  
“Your Majesty, I’ll have a room prepared for you, but-”  
“I want to see my brother,” repeated Louis. This time it wasn’t a request, this was a command and the Duke of Chartres understood that difference.  
“Please, follow me, Your Majesty, but you have to prepare for…”  
“I’ve seen many things in my life,” retorted Louis, “don’t worry.”

The Duke of Chartres lead the king and his company to Monsieur’s cabinet. The servants, who made a little group in front of the door, disappeared when they saw the King approach.  
Inside the room it almost looked like a not very entertaining party. Crowded by people dressed in their evening clothes, standing and staring at each other, not knowing what to do or say. But the tension in the air – so thick and at the same moment hurting like a dagger right through Louis’ throat. Everyone bowed and at first Louis didn’t see anything different. Finally, he noticed a person lying on the sofa on the other side of the room.   
Liselotte, who was until now kneeling next to her husband, turned around, got up, approached the king and blocked his view once again.  
“Your Majesty,” she exhaled, “I’m glad you’re here. We’ll prepare you a room and if you wish to eat something-”  
“I wish to see my brother, that’s why I’m here,” repeated Louis starting to lose his patience. Liselotte was shaking like a leaf and her voice was cracked. Louis’ stare prevented her from further offers of a room or food, she just stepped aside and Louis made a few steps towards his brother, finally no one in his way.   
Yes, he had undoubtedly seen some things in his life, but now he fully understood Chartres’ warning or Liselotte’s hesitation.   
Philippe was lying on the sofa, still in his evening clothes, only a coat was put aside so the doctor could easily approach the vessels in Philippe’s arm and bleed him. The right half of Monsieur’s body was now completely lifeless and his fingers had turned blue and cold. His other hand, however, was still visibly shaking and from time to time a big spasm shook all the left half of body. Philippe wasn’t breathing normally, more like he was gasping and fighting for every breath. This was bad and terrifying, but it was the face which shocked Louis the most. It looked like a mask, the right half motionless and swollen, lower lip hanging freely and a thin stream of saliva leaking from the loosened corner of the mouth. Philippe’s blue eyes were still jumping from one thing to another, but they were like the eyes of an infant – empty and uncomprehending. There were some sounds coming out of Philippe’s mouth, sounds which couldn’t possibly be considered words.  
Louis was staring in that dreadful face, trying to find any sign of his brother’s spirit occupying this body, yet he found nothing. He swallowed many times, silently choking with all the horror, sadness, dread and so many words. Yes, he had seen somethings in his life, but never… never this.  
“Brother…,” he whispered, “my brother…”   
Suddenly Louis realised there is still the room full of people watching him and turned to the doctor, who just caught his stare and shook his head. There was nothing to be done.  
“Can he hear me?” asked Louis and the doctor answered: “We cannot be sure, Your Majesty. Maybe. But even if he does, he most probably doesn’t understand.”  
“Most probably?”  
“As I said, Your Majesty, we cannot be sure. By anything.”  
The silly question ’will he live?’ was dragging through Louis’ lips, but he swallowed it. Even the silently standing crowd were confirming the truth – they were watching and waiting. Waiting for one thing only.   
“I cannot believe I’ll never speak with my brother again,” muttered Louis who suddenly felt as if he was a little boy again. A scared and lost boy, not an old man, not a king, not someone holding together the state for more than half-a-century. The only person to know this little boy was the one lying on the sofa, fighting for breath, his consciousness flying into some other world. Louis was alone in his own mind more than ever now.  
“I want to be alone,” said Louis quietly.   
“Some privacy for His Majesty,” ordered Bontemps and everyone left, maybe gladly.   
Now there was only the king, young Bontemps, Liselotte, the Duke of Chartres. And Philippe of course, even though… he wasn’t really there.  
“Mother, you should rest as well, you’ve done enough,” suddenly sounded the voice of the Duke of Chartres and when Louis turned around, he indeed saw Liselotte was close to fainting.  
“I will stay,” she insisted and leaned against the wall.  
“Mother, please…”  
“Go and rest, Madame,” ordered Louis with all the authority he had, “that’s a king’s command.”  
“I have to stay with my husband!”  
“I will stay with him,” returned Louis and turned to the Duke of Chartres: “Take your mother to her chambers and then have some rest yourself. Now. I will send for you both, if…,” he hesitated here, as did Liselotte and her son, “…if any change,” finished Louis.  
Young Philippe nodded, put his arms around his mother’s shoulders and led her from the room.  
Louis turned to Philippe again and after a long silence he whispered: “What is it for to be a king, Bontemps?”  
Young valet hesitated. “Sire?”  
Louis looked at him, surprised, and then sighed. “Never mind,” he stated coldly, “I just really miss your father.”  
Then he left young Bontemps and sat on the edge of Philippe’s mattress. The valet quickly brought him a chair, but Louis ignored it, his eyes fixed on his brother.   
He listened to another load of Philippe’s unintelligible mumbles desperately wishing to understand his words, or just one at least – or if not, he wished Philippe would just shut up, because this… this was insane!  
“Shhh,” whispered Louis taking his brother’s hand. “Don’t worry, it’s alright, just don’t worry. Even though… you aren’t worried, are you? You never were. Never worried and never scared. Well, once or twice maybe, if you remember. You left that to me every time – or rather I kept it. You would take every load I’d give you, wouldn’t you? I know you would. You did. You always did and now you must again. You must fight, understand? You must live, I need you. And you promised,” urged Louis quietly, “years ago, remember? In the woods, you promised and I need you to keep your word!”  
Louis ignored the confused glances from young Bontemps, who was somehow trying to blend in with the furniture. And suddenly he realised – not only Bontemps, but none of those people in this whole castle knew. They didn’t know, only he knew. And Philippe. Philippe knew. Philippe knew, heard and understood, of that Louis was sure. He had to. Anything else would be unthinkable.  
And Louis kept searching for Philippe in those empty eyes – did he see him? Perhaps a glance or… was it only wishful thinking.  
Where are you now, thought Louis again and again, Philippe, my little brother, where are you…

The hours that followed were impossible to be described, at least for Louis. They were like a kaleidoscope of thoughts, glances and pleas all trapped in the thick atmosphere around, the air changed into a bitter syrup, it was hard to breathe. The agitation and shock were retreating making place for an exhausting, oppressive waiting, which was equally, not to say even more, terrifying.  
Louis spent several hours next to Philippe’s bed, until Liselotte returned and Louis’ doctor ordered him to have some rest too. Some time ago Louis would protest, but he was weary and honestly, he thought – would my presence make any difference? Death is truly a tool of God, no king in the world can defeat it, no matter how much he would be willing to sacrifice. The answer is anything. Anything, but death does not haggle.

Around five o’clock in the morning Bontemps woke Louis. Philippe was getting worse and had fallen into deep unconsciousness. He already looked like death, eyes closed, and his struggle for breath had changed to wheezing and then to a silent death rattle. Yet it still counted as breathing, Philippe was alive and fighting.   
He’s stubborn as always, Louis smiled a little. He insisted on staying with his brother again and nobody dared to oppose him.  
And hour later Bontemps tapped on Louis’ shoulder and quietly asked if His Majesty wished for something to eat.   
It was sunrise and breakfast time, after probably the worst night of Louis’ life.   
The king was too upset and tired to send his young valet directly to hell with that question. Furthermore, he admitted he would be hungry if there wasn’t such a knot in his stomach. Strange, how these normal little things like being hungry existed still. He ate nothing, and of his own accord he left his place for Liselotte to return and retired to his room.  
Brother and sister in law exchanged numb glances when they passed each other in the door.

He didn’t expect to sleep, yet when he woke up, it was some time after noon. Bontemps helped him to dress again and in a short time Louis was back in Philippe’s cabinet.   
Nothing changed.   
There was a group of people, standing and staring at each other in a depressing silence.   
It was almost getting tedious, really.  
The watch now fell to the Duke of Chartres, whose face was nearly the same colour as his father’s when he desperately watched him, clutching his hand.  
Louis approached them.  
“I’ll take it from now,” he said.  
Young Philippe didn’t answer; he didn’t even move.  
“You’re exhausted,” continued Louis and after a second of hesitation he put his hand on his nephew’s shoulder, “you at least need some air. I’ll watch over him.”  
Suddenly the Duke of Chartres lifted his head, looked into Louis’ eyes and said slowly: “There is… no need, Your Majesty.”  
The sentence was vague but the meaning was clear. So clear that for a blink of an eye it stopped Louis’ heart. Then it started to beat again, twice as fast.   
After the first second of shock Louis wanted to shake his nephew and shout out why no one called for him, when he realised it was news for everyone in this room. Philippe passed away like snuffing out a candle, without any fuss, so peacefully that only his son, watching every one of his father’s breaths, noticed.  
“How long …,” asked Louis in hoarse voice.  
“An hour,” replied the Duke of Chartres dully, “maybe more, I don’t know, I… I’m sorry, Your Majesty, I couldn’t…”  
Philippe’s hand was indeed cold as he had been dead for longer than an hour, his fingers were stiff and clenched with a few bluish stains starting to appear. Louis nearly tossed that hand away in shock and looked at brother’s face, which was somehow wax-like and sunken, like death already started to feed on him.   
The Duke of Chartres finally got up, Liselotte appeared in the room too, she was called. And the others, members of Philippe’s household, mademoiselle de Séry, Liselotte’s ladies… all the crowd who were just standing and silently waiting.   
Not a single tear or sob.   
Suddenly Louis realised they were watching him from a distance, as if he was intruding. These people, who loved Philippe dearly, couldn’t mourn him in the presence of the king. No crying, no sobbing or finding comfort in each other’s embrace, they just stood there as etiquette requested. Louis looked around and felt he wasn’t welcome, all the people silently wished him to leave, not knowing what to do with him.   
And he left. People bowed as he walked towards the door and Bontemps closed it behind him.

The King’s head was clouded when he walked through the corridor towards his room. And honestly didn’t know if he wasn’t weeping because he didn’t want to… or because he couldn’t? He still expected Philippe to just appear behind a corner and make everything Louis saw in that room an insane dream. But nobody came.   
“Sire,” Bontemps pointed out, “the rooms of Your Majesty are that way.”  
Louis ignored him and opened the door to the chamber he had been looking for. The master’s bedchamber, his brother’s bedchamber.  
Yes, he’d seen the body, he saw his dead brother, and yet somehow he had to make sure this room was empty to truly believe what had happened.   
The chamber was big and bright, and lacking any sign of sadness or ominousness, which would have been expected from a dead man’s room. Nothing had even a speck of dust on it, everything was clean and shiny, even the bedsheets perfectly neat as no one lay in that bed last night.  
Nobody here, nobody and nothing.  
“This is…,” Louis said quietly, “… this is just so him!” He shouted those two last words, so suddenly that Bontemps jumped two inches up.  
And Louis continued in that tone: “This is him, this is so his way! He could even choose how to die to make me feel guilty for it! Bastard! That damned little bastard! How could he?”  
Bontemps hesitated. “Sire…”  
“Didn’t I tell him, at least a thousand times,” Louis kept raging and paced through the room, “yes, of course I did! I told him to slow down, I told him he should rest, he is ill – I should have probably told him otherwise, because anything I say, he always does the opposite! Just the opposite! I asked him to rest, but no, of course he says he’s alright! I sent him a doctor, but no way! And this is what happens! This is the outcome and it is all his fault! His fault, not mine. It’s not my fault.” Here he stopped for a moment and leaned against the window ledge. He had many other things to say, to shout, but he couldn’t, he simply didn’t have any words for it.   
Suddenly he recalled the touch of Philippe’s dead hand and a chill ran down his spine. His knees started to shake so badly Louis had to sit down in the nearest chair, while the inexplicable cold was taking him more and more, all his blood froze, his heart beat faster and its sound rumbled in his ears while all the rest of the world somehow receded. He felt a sweat running all over his body despite the coldness coming from inside.  
“Drink this, You Majesty.”  
Young Bontemps was suddenly there, handing him a small glass of alcohol he poured from Monsieur’s decanter.  
Louis didn’t take the glass immediately, but Bontemps didn’t retreat – and this time the fight of wills was won by the younger man.  
Soon the alcohol helped and the clouds and cold crawled away.  
“Sit and rest, Your Majesty,” said Bontemps, “and I can bring you another glass, if you wish.”  
Louis lightly smiled. “You’d want your king to be drunk, Bontemps?”  
“Only when it’s for medicinal purposes, Sire.”  
“That’s what my brother said for the last decade every time I asked him not to drink so much,” replied Louis pensively, “he drank only with food and for medicinal purposes. I guess I understand him now,” he returned the empty glass to Bontemps, who filled it and brought back, “but I won’t tell him anymore.”  
“Why not, Sire?”  
Louis gave him a cold stare. “My brother is dead,” he reminded.  
“No one we love is lost,” replied Bontemps after a while of hesitation, “alive or dead. He won’t go away, he’ll walk beside you, as long as you need him there. Tell him whatever you need, he’ll listen and find his way to answer. At least that’s what I was told when my father died, Sire.”  
The King looked at his valet with a new interest. Until now he mourned his Bontemps and took this one as an unsatisfactory replacement – he never truly realised the boy had lost someone even closer than a servant and friend.  
There was a silence for a while, Louis didn’t know what to say, until he suddenly asked: “Do you miss your father, Bontemps?”  
The young man was surprised by the question, but then he said shortly: “I do, Your Majesty.”  
“I often miss him too,” Louis nodded, “he was an exceptional valet. And friend.”  
“He always spoke about you very highly, sire.”  
“Did he? And what did he say?”  
Bontemps took his time with answer. “He said you were a great king, a wise ruler, a fair master… and a good man, Your Majesty.”  
Louis chuckled. “A good man? Your father knew me better than anyone and he came with that?”  
“More than once, Your Majesty,” said Bontemps, confused by king’s laugh, “he often talked about you. When we met, but mostly in his letters. I remember-”  
He stopped when he realised the familiarity, but a wave of Louis’ hand invited him to continue.  
“I remember my father’s fairy tales, every time he came home,” reminisced Bontemps. “I was in cradle when my older brother died and since then father had started prepare me to take his position one day. He was talking with such a pride and joy, that I got the impression that there is nothing more fulfilling and meritorious than to serve a king.”  
Louis sighed. “Then I’m sorry I probably didn’t live up to your expectations, young man.”  
“But you did, sire,” replied Bontemps in a surprised tone, “it’s me, who should be sorry, Your Majesty, for not living up to yours.”  
“Listen to me,” said Louis earnestly, “your father was the best valet I could ever get, but don’t try to be him. You are different, Bontemps, and that’s not always a bad thing. It’s true you didn’t live up to my expectations after your father’s passing, but I know that very soon you will.”  
Bontemps’ face brightened up as he quickly replied. “I surely will, Your Majesty. I’ll do my best.”  
Louis smiled. “I know.”  
The friendly atmosphere was suddenly interrupted by the knock on the door.  
Bontemps went to open it and there was the Duke of Chartres.   
“I was told I would find you here, Your Majesty,” he said. He was very pale and his eyes were red-rimmed, but he managed to compose himself quite well.  
“Yes?”  
“My mother asks, if you join us downstairs,” he explained, “she ordered a cold lunch.”  
“Tell your mother I’ll be right there.”  
Chartres nodded and draped a coat he had brought in over the backrest of the nearest chair. Then he left.  
Louis recognised that coat – the last time he saw it was in the cabinet, thrown away and forgotten. Philippe’s coat.  
“Wait for me outside.”  
Bontemps obeyed immediately and Louis stayed alone.  
A sad smile appeared on his face, when he realised the justacorps was made from the finest embroidered velvet, it would have cost a fortune.   
You would never change, would you, thought Louis, and to be completely honest, my brother, I’m glad for it. I wouldn’t love you more if you were different, you know? Did you know?  
The Duke of Chartres had thrown the coat on the chair – the sleeves especially will be creased soon, Louis thought, I bet if you saw that, you’d hate how it was treated.   
He nearly chuckled when he imagined, took the coat and folded it properly.  
When he placed it back on the chair, something in the pocket knocked on the wood.  
And suddenly Louis knew what it is, even before he took out a yellow translucent stone, polished by the years.  
He’ll listen and find his way to answer, that’s what Bontemps said. Louis smiled.   
It seems the dead speak after all…

A month later, Paris…   
“I won’t be long, actually, it will only take a minute.”  
“Yes, Your Royal Highness, I’m sure he’ll be delighted to see you,” answered the servant, but his voice suggested that he really didn’t care about the situation.   
He led the unexpected visitor through a sunny anteroom to the door of a bedchamber, where he suddenly stopped.   
“However…,” he said.  
“Yes?”  
The servant hesitated. “You want to talk to him?”   
Philippe frowned. “Of course.”  
“You might find that quite difficult.”  
“Leave that to my consideration,” Philippe put the servant in his place, “be so good.”  
“As you wish, Your Royal Highness. But I’m not sure-”  
“Then the easiest way is to ask, don’t you think?”  
The servant just lightly shook his head in resignation, knocked on the door and entered.   
The heavy curtains were closed, which made the bedchamber dim and gloomy. The stale air was drenched in mustiness, age, sickness and depression.   
There was a lone man present inside. He was half-sitting and half-lying in a chair, supported by cushions, his legs were covered with a shawl. It was hard to imagine that this used to be a real person, not to mention a handsome man, not so long ago. Now just a skeleton covered by dry, marked skin. His eyes were glassy and his cheeks so sunken one could see the outlines of his molars. He looked like a lifeless, pitiful old man – yet he wasn’t even sixty. Prematurely aged by advancing syphilis, no reputation, lasting scandals or memories of previous beauty could restore his lost teeth, missing hair or simple will to carry on, which just recently had suffered the hardest possible blow. He was finished. Everyone knew it. He knew it himself.  
His hands, which resembled two thin long-legged spiders, rested on the blanket, and shuddered when the door opened.  
“You have a visitor,” the servant announced loudly and without any effort of refinement, “someone is here to see you!”  
For a moment one could doubt the man even noticed someone was speaking to him, but then he quietly ordered: “Send them away.”  
“I don’t think I can,” replied servant, “it’s His Royal Highness, the Duke of Orleans, and he insists on seeing you.”  
The man in the chair froze in disbelief, but then his thin pale lips let out a sigh.  
“Send him in, then.”  
Entering the tomb-like chamber was a shock after the sunny afternoon for Philippe. The scent of medicines and someone rotting alive was so terrifying and repulsive that he almost stepped back out and fled – outside to breathe, to live. He came here determined to make it as quick and less awkward as possible, but suddenly he was sure this visit would stay in his mind for the rest of his life. He summoned up the courage and breathed out.  
“You have to go closer,” advised the servant, who passed by him and took the untouched plate full of cold food, probably supposed to be yesterday’s dinner.  
Philippe approached that living corpse, which was staring somewhere into the wall, ignoring him, and suddenly he was scared. He never thought himself to be a coward, he fought in battles, he saw men die, some of them quite dreadfully, but now he was scared.   
“Ehm…,” Philippe cleared his throat. “Chevalier… Chevalier de Lorraine?”  
The ill man nodded, but he still didn’t look at Philippe. The young duke was slowly getting offended and he didn’t know how to begin.  
“You didn’t eat,” Philippe said finally.  
“It’s miracle when he does,” the servant uttered behind the duke’s back. There wasn’t any compassion in his voice, only an irritation that his job was getting more difficult than it used to be. “And maybe you can convince him to take his medicine too, he’s a nightmare.”  
“Thank you, that will be all,” replied the Duke of Orleans coldly and his tone forced the servant to leave.  
Now the two men were alone and Philippe took a chair. There were very few moments in his life when he felt as uncomfortable as now. There was something in this room and in that man in front of him, what was still making him look over his shoulder. He felt like an unwelcome intruder in some strange, different world, which is already beyond a veil. He often boasted about not being religious or superstitious, but this place was making him believe, maybe in a soul, maybe in ghosts, he couldn’t tell.  
Philippe shook off the peculiar feeling and cleared his throat.  
“Why don’t you take your medicine?” he asked directly. “And why you don’t eat? Do you think this will solve anything?”  
He got up again, went to the window and resolutely drew the curtains back. The Chevalier hissed when the sunlight filled the room and Philippe opened a window to let in the summer breeze.   
“You are exactly like your father,” the Chevalier mumbled, “you even look like him.”  
Philippe thought that was quite debatable, but he didn’t come to argue about family resemblances.  
“I’ve heard the King granted you all your father’s titles,” continued the Chevalier and the Duke of Orleans, formerly the Duke of Chartres, nodded.  
“Yes, I was lucky,” he replied, smiling, “some of my cousins were furious, especially the Duke of Maine. Honestly, I too thought king would choose him. I’m not complaining, but it’s strange.”  
“As far as I know the king,” replied the Chevalier, “it’s not so strange at all.”   
This brought them both to the point that they fully realised once again, why young Philippe received his duchy in a first place.  
“We didn’t see you at the funeral,” uttered Philippe after a while, “you were missed.”  
The Chevalier looked at him and bitterly smiled. “Missed? By whom exactly?”  
“My father, perhaps?” retorted Philippe. “Maybe he would have liked you to have been there.”  
The answer didn’t come at once, the Chevalier looked at the wall again and Philippe took fright that the old man would fall asleep before they were finished, but suddenly the Chevalier said: “I always enjoyed funerals.” It sounded pensively. “They are an excellent hypocritical theatre of sobbing and weeping for people we hate. There was a great deal of fun in it. And a little mockery to God, a reminder that you are still alive and he can’t yet reach you. But when your friends start to fill the coffins… that’s different. You are far too young to understand that feeling, boy.”  
“What feeling?”  
“To have death upon your head,” explained the Chevalier, “just waiting to give a final blow. Your life gone, sooner than you’d want and nothing but a cold hole, waiting in the ground, in front of you. Your father… your father always hated the cold.”  
Philippe sighed and offered: “Would you like me to accompany you to his grave later?”  
“I will not see it! Do you understand? Never.”   
“My father would-”  
“Your father would what?” retorted the Chevalier. “Your father is not here! If he has any objections, let him come and tell me. So, where is he?”  
“Calm yourself!” Philippe shouted him down and then he took a moment to calm down as well, before he said: “I’m sure my father would wish… is there anything I can do for you?”  
“Yes. Leave me alone.”   
Philippe pressed his lips together. He wasn’t used to his help being acknowledged like this. “Just…,” he continued with certain stubborn stamina, “your chambers here at the Palace are still yours to keep, I can provide that. And I would like you to accept a pension-”  
“Excellent. So now I’m a beggar.”  
“This isn’t alms!”  
“Then what?”  
“Only an offer of my affection and friendship.”  
“Why? Why are you doing this?”  
“My father-”  
“Don’t speak of him,” the Chevalier slowly closed his eyes as the small argument exhausted him and continued: “If he was here, he’d tell you quite clearly to keep your money and enjoy it while you can. Don’t waste it on the past, you fool. Now you are the Duke of Orleans, with you own friends and interests. Believe me, if you won’t think for yourself, do not expect anyone to do it for you. And now go. Go to your mistress, go to your children or go to hell, I don’t care. Leave dead in their coffins.”  
Philippe got up. “Do you want someone to visit you tomorrow?”  
“No. And get out.”  
“In that case I wish you good day.”   
The Duke of Orleans gave the Chevalier one last puzzled stare and left, to be honest, quite gladly.  
The Chevalier was sitting in his chair, head tilted back and eyes closed. In the last month, he managed to lock all the pain, wounds and tears into some secret box inside him, but Philippe’s visit brought them back to light. He expected it to hurt, but it didn’t. It was something beyond pain, because how can anything hurt when you feel empty like a cracked vase? There’s nothing what could hurt, nothing anywhere… but maybe there is... the Chevalier gasped when a new wave of tears caught him unprepared, after so long he didn’t even know which thought or image made him cry – it was just prolonged darkness, cold and freezing mud, which would end one day. Eventually.  
“Close the window,” he ordered when the servant entered and his voice cracked.  
“You need your laudanum,” the servant uttered and without any more commentaries he filled up a spoon from a dark bottle. He wanted to hand it to the Chevalier, but when he saw his shaking hands and tears rolling down the old man’s face, he just thrust the spoon into his mouth himself.  
“And swallow,” he ordered and gave him another one.  
After a short while the drug worked and the Chevalier’s mind was sinking into oblivion.   
Monsieur took a seat next to him, swung his feet on the table, stretched out his young body in sheer pleasure and cheerfully laughed. The voice was pure and ringing. “You know, my love,” he said and his eyes shined, “life in general is very overrated.”

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback will be appreciated :-)
> 
> Please, big applause for my amazing proofreader Trudy White, the stories would be hardly so readable without her.


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